1. First Man in Rome

by Colleen McCullough

  The autopsy confirmed the diagnosis of renal and hepatic failure: kidneys and liver were swollen, congested, and full of haemorrhages. The envelope around Nicopolis's heart had bled, as had the linings of her stomach, her small intestine, and her colon. The innocent-looking mushroom called The Destroyer had done its subtle work well. Sulla organized the funeral (Clitumna was too prostrated) and walked in the procession as chief mourner, ahead of the stars of the Roman comedic and mimetic theaters; their presence assured a good attendance, which would have pleased Nicopolis. And when Sulla returned to Clitumna's house afterward, he found Gaius Julius Caesar waiting for him. Throwing off his dark mourning toga, Sulla joined Clitumna and her guest-in her sitting room. On few occasions had he set eyes on Gaius Julius Caesar, and knew the senator not at all; that the senator would visit Clitumna because of the untimely death of a Greek strumpet struck Sulla as very odd, so he was on his guard and punctiliously correct as he was introduced. "Gaius Julius," he said, bowing. "Lucius Cornelius," said Caesar, bowing also. They did not shake hands, but when Sulla sat down, Caesar resumed his own seat with apparent tranquillity. He turned to the weeping Clitumna and spoke kindly. "My dear, why stay?" he asked. "Marcia is waiting next door for you. Have your steward take you to her. Women stand in need of women's company in times of grief." Without a word Clitumna rose and tottered to the door, while the visitor reached into his dark toga and produced a small roll of paper, which he then laid on the table. "Lucius Cornelius, your friend Nicopolis had me draw up her will and lodge it with the Vestals a long time ago. The lady Clitumna is aware of its contents, which is why she did not need to stay to hear me read it." "Yes?" asked Sulla, at a loss. He could rind nothing further to say, and so sat dumbly, gazing at Caesar rather blankly. Caesar moved to the crux of the matter. "Lucius Cornelius, the lady Nicopolis made you her sole heir." Sulla's expression remained blank. "She did?" "She did." "Well, I suppose if I'd thought about it, I would have known she'd be bound to do that," said Sulla, recovering. "Not that it matters. Everything she had, she spent." Caesar looked at him keenly. "She didn't, you know. The lady Nicopolis was quite wealthy." "Rubbish!" said Sulla. "Truly, Lucius Cornelius, she was quite wealthy. She owned no property, but she was the widow of a military tribune who did extremely well out of booty. What he left her, she invested. As of this morning, her estate is in excess of two hundred thousand denarii," said Caesar. There could be no mistaking the genuineness of Sulla's shock. Whatever Caesar might have thought of him until that moment, he knew he was now looking at a man who possessed no inkling of this information; Sulla sat stupefied. Then he sank back in his chair, put shaking hands up to his face, shuddered, and gasped. "So much! Nicopolis?" "So much. Two hundred thousand denarii. Or eight hundred thousand sesterces, if you prefer. A knight's portion." Down came Sulla's hands. "Oh, Nicopolis!" he said. Caesar got to his feet, extending his hand. Sulla took it dazedly. "No, Lucius Cornelius, don't get up," said Caesar warmly. "My dear fellow, I cannot tell you how delighted I am for you. I know it's difficult to salve your grief at this early stage, but I would like you to know that I've often wished with all my heart that one day you would better your fortune and your luck. In the morning I'll commence probate. You had better meet me in the Forum at the second hour. By the shrine of Vesta. For now, I bid you good day." After Caesar had gone, Sulla sat without moving for a long time. The house was as silent as Nicopolis's grave; Clitumna must have stayed next door with Marcia, and the servants were creeping about. Perhaps as many as six hours went by before he finally got up, stiff and sore, and stretched a little. The blood began to flow, his heart to fill with fire. "Lucius Cornelius, you are on your way at last," he said, and began to laugh. Though it started very softly, his laughter swelled and rolled into a shriek, a roar, a howl of mirth; the servants, listening terrified, debated among themselves as to which one was going to venture into Clitumna's sitting room. But before they could reach a decision, Sulla stopped laughing.

  Clitumna aged almost overnight. Though her years numbered only fifty, the death of her nephew had kicked the ageing process into a gallop; now the death of her dearest friend and her lover compounded her devastation. Not even Sulla had the power to jolly her out of her megrims. Not mime nor farce could lure her out of the house, nor could her regular visitors Scylax and Marsyas provoke a smile. What appalled her was the shrinking world of her intimates as well as her own encroaching dotage; if Sulla should abandon her for his inheritance from Nicopolis had freed him from economic dependence upon her she would be completely alone. A prospect she dreaded. Soon after Nicopolis died, she sent for Gaius Julius Caesar. "One cannot leave anything to the dead," she said to him, "and so I must alter my will yet again." The will was altered forthwith, and taken back to repose in the Vestal pigeonholes. Still she moped. Her tears dropped like rain, her once restless hands were folded in her lap like two unbaked leaves of pastry waiting for the cook to fill them. Everyone worried; everyone understood there was nothing to be done save wait for time to heal. If there was time. For Sulla it was time. Julilla's latest missive said:

  I love you, even though the months and now the years have shown me how little my love is returned, how little my fate matters to you. Last June I turned eighteen, by rights I should be married, but I have managed to postpone that evil necessity by making myself ill. I must marry you, you and no one but you, my most beloved, my dearest Lucius Cornelius. And so my father hesitates, unable to present me to anyone as a suitable or desirable bride, and I shall keep it that way until you come to me and say that you will marry me. Once you said I was a baby, I would grow out of my immature love for you, but surely so long after it is almost two years I have proven my worth, I have proven that my love for you is as constant as the return of the sun from the south each spring. She is gone, your thin Greek lady I hated with every breath I drew, and cursed, and wished dead dead dead. You see how powerful I am, Lucius Cornelius? Why then do you not understand that you cannot escape me? No heart can be as full of love as mine and not generate reciprocation. You do love me, I know you love me. Give in, Lucius Cornelius, give in. Come and see me, kneel down beside my bed of pain and sorrow, let me draw down your head onto my breast, and offer me your kiss. Don't sentence me to die! Choose to let me live. Choose to marry me.